Chelsie OTP prompts
by chelsie fan
Summary: A collection of OTP prompt responses for our favorite couple.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Thank you so much for your wonderful reaction to "The House on Brouncker Road." After the loveliness of the CS, I wondered if I ever would write again. (Don't mess with the perfection of THE SCENE, right?) But I did, and your support led me to try again. Thank you.**

**Some of you said that "The House on Brouncker Road" made you sad. It's my hope that this pure, unadulterated fluff will restore your spirits. This story is in answer to a tumblr prompt from otpdisaster. I initially wrote a brief response in a tumblr post, and thanks to encouragement from brenna-louise, putmeinyourpocketmike (libbybell), and onesimus42, I expanded it a bit. The prompt is this: "Person B of your OTP not letting Person A get out of bed by aggressively cuddling them." I was just tickled at the notion of aggressive cuddling, because aggression and cuddling seem pretty incongruous to me. Here's my take on it.**

_Early morning in the Carsons' cottage…_

Mrs. Carson sighed and started to roll away from her husband. "I suppose I'd better get up and get started."

Mr. Carson opened one eye, wrapped his arm firmly around his wife's waist, pulled her back to his chest, and spooned her tightly. "Five more minutes, love," he rumbled sleepily.

"You do remember that Beryl and Bill are coming for tea?" she reminded him.

He softly caressed her stomach and draped one of his legs over hers, restraining her more securely. "But that's _hours _away. We can have a bit of a lie-in. Give me four more minutes. Please?"

"But I've got so much to do!" she countered. "Cooking and tidying … They're our very first visitors, and I want everything to be perfect."

"And everything _will _be perfect," he assured her as he kissed her shoulder. "I'll help. We'll be done and ready in no time. Please, love? Just three more minutes?"

"But I am to _bake biscuits_ – that will be eaten by _Beryl Pat- _I mean _Mason_! I don't mind telling you I'm a bit worried they won't be up to her standards." She half-heartedly tried to wriggle out of his insistent embrace.

"You are a wonderful cook, my dear. I've certainly become a bit thicker about the middle since you've been feeding me. Your biscuits will be delicious. _You're_ delicious," he whispered seductively as his kisses moved to her neck and his hand rose to her bosom. "Now, just lie here with me for two more minutes, and then we'll get to the biscuits and all the rest."

"Charles Carson! Are you trying to ply me with sweet words and tender caresses?" she accused, feigning disapproval.

"That is _precisely_ my intention, Elsie Carson!" he admitted as he stroked her bottom and nibbled her ear. "I'll settle for one more minute."

"I'd love to, dear, but – " she began.

He turned her over, rolled himself on top of her, and trapped her playfully underneath him as he pressed her down gently into the mattress. "Very well. You win. We'll get up. But I'm not going anywhere – and neither are you – until I get a proper good morning kiss."

"I think I can agree to that," she conceded.

Five minutes and _many _kisses later, he reluctantly disentangled himself from her and started to rise, sighing. "All right, then. Let's get moving."

She pulled him back down, pushed him against the pillows, climbed on top of him, and kissed him thoroughly. "Just five more minutes, darling. Please?" she purred sweetly.

An hour later, they finally rose.

That afternoon, when Mr. and Mrs. Mason arrived, everything was in order. The cottage was tidy, the biscuits were hot out of the oven, and the water for tea was set to boil. However, it was fortunate that the Masons arrived late; for if they had arrived on time, they surely would have caught the Carsons in a rather compromising situation.

After exchanging pleasantries, the men chatted amiably in the parlor, and the women went to attend to things in the kitchen.

"Elsie, I've something to tell you," began Mrs. Mason as she placed some biscuits on a plate.

"Yes, Beryl? What is it?" asked Mrs. Carson while she wet the tea.

"Well, you've a floury handprint on your backside." The newly-retired cook had to fight back a grin.

"Have I? Oh, well, I must have wiped my hand there earlier." The former housekeeper colored a charming shade of pink while trying to brush the flour from her skirt.

"If that were the case, love, _your_ thumb would have been facing _down_. And besides _that_ … I don't think _your_ hand is quite that large. By any chance, did Charles help with the biscuits?"

"That's a lovely new blouse, Beryl."

"Thank you, but don't change the subject."

"Only, you've a button undone, here at the back of your neck. Did you perhaps dress in a hurry? Is that why you were late? Next time, you should ask Bill to make sure you're done up properly."

Mrs. Mason covered her face and burst into a fit of giggles, and Mrs. Carson couldn't help but join her friend's laughter.

"What a sight we are!" cried Mrs. Mason. "At least married life agrees with us."

"That it does, dear. That it does," agreed Mrs. Carson.

The men in the parlor were completely unaware of the reason for the merriment coming from the kitchen, but both smiled fondly at hearing their wives so happy.

"I daresay marriage suits them both," suggested Mr. Carson rather proudly.

"Yes, I think it does," Mr. Mason concurred. "And us, too, I think."

"I certainly have no complaints. We're two very fortunate men, Mr. Mason."

"That we are, Mr. Carson. That we are."

**Please drop a review to let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N This little fic is for Batwings79, who requested a response to the following prompt from tumblr user evilpotato512: "**_**Imagine the most serious character you know. Now imagine them getting scared by the toaster going off as they walk by.**_**"**

**In order to appreciate what follows, you might benefit from a brief historical note about toasters. The electric toaster was invented in 1893 by a Scotsman, Alan MacMasters, but the first commercially successful toaster, manufactured by General Electric, didn't appear until 1909. Early toasters browned only one side of the bread at a time and did not automatically turn off. In 1919, Charles Strite patented the automatic pop-up toaster. The Waters Genter Company's Model 1-A-1 was introduced commercially in 1925-1926; it was the first toaster that cooked both sides of the bread simultaneously, had a timer to shut the heating element off, and popped up the toast when it was done. On a somewhat related note, (pre-)sliced bread first appeared in 1928.**

**Please enjoy my silly, little fic, and do leave a review if you can spare a few seconds. Thanks!**

_The Carsons' cottage, 1926_

Elsie began the breakfast preparations while Charles laid the table. As she busied herself at the counter and at the stove, he went back and forth between the cupboards and drawers and the kitchen table, acquiring the necessary dishes and utensils and setting them neatly in place. Just before reaching around her to open a drawer, he gave her bottom a playful pinch, which earned him a loving swat on the shoulder. Then, after stretching over her to close a cupboard, he tickled her sides; that garnered him a gentle poke in the stomach.

"My, my, Mr. Carson! You certainly are frisky this morning!" Elsie observed.

"It's only that _you_ are so _beautiful_ this morning, Mrs. Carson," explained Charles, drawing her into his arms and kissing her. She eagerly returned his affections. They exchanged kisses and caresses for a few minutes before she began to pull away regretfully.

"Where are you going?" he wanted to know.

"I'm sorry, dear, but the toast will burn if I don't turn it now," she apologized, sliding over to the toaster.

"I still don't know why we had to bring that blasted thing with us," he griped. "I should have insisted you leave it behind at the big house when we retired."

"You agreed we could bring it with us because you love me," she reminded him as she turned the bread to brown the other side.

"Well, then, it's lucky for you that I love you so much. If I loved you any less, that … that … " – he fumbled for an appropriate derogatory term while pointing at the offending implement – "_that!_ … wouldn't be here!"

"But you _don't_ love me any less, and I _do_ know how lucky I am, and _that_ … _is_ here! Now, where were we before we were interrupted?" Having started up the toaster again, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, silencing his protests.

He let himself be soothed by her soft lips and her warm breath and her sweet words and her delicate fingers. He was lulled into such a state of bliss that he almost didn't notice a faint burning smell coming from the counter.

"Erm … Elsie?" he questioned, breaking their kiss. "Do you smell that?"

"Smell what, Charles? Oh! The bread!"

She hurried to the toaster, but it was too late. There were small flames licking out of the holes on the sides and swirls of smoke coming out of the top. She unplugged the cord, wet a dish towel, and smothered the fire. Charles bravely carried the still-smoldering remains of the toaster outside, and Elsie trailed behind him waving another towel to clear the smoke.

As they stood on the back porch looking down at the now-defunct appliance on the ground, Charles remarked, "I will admit that I am not sorry to see it go, but I would have preferred to give it less dramatic send-off." Elsie could only chuckle.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Good morning, love," said Charles as he walked into the kitchen to find Elsie standing at the stove, cooking their breakfast. "Why didn't you wake me?" He stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, leaned over her shoulder, and planted a kiss on her cheek.

"I tried, but you wouldn't budge," she teased as she turned the eggs.

"That's not true, and you know it!" he defended himself.

"Well, I didn't try very hard, I'll admit," allowed Elsie, flipping the bacon in the pan. "I kissed your forehead, but when you didn't stir, I couldn't bring myself to disturb you any further. You looked so peaceful."

"I was having a wonderful dream."

"Oh? What was it about?" She leaned down to open the oven and check the sweet rolls, playfully pressing her bottom against him as she bent over.

"It was the same one I wake to every morning. I dream that the kindest, cleverest, prettiest girl in the world has married me."

"Oh, my! That _is_ a nice dream." After deciding the rolls needed a few more minutes and closing the oven door, she stood and faced her husband.

He pulled her into his arms. "It's a very _strange_ dream, though. It continues when I wake and never goes away."

"Well! I married a real charmer!" she said before sweetly kissing his lips. "Now, why don't you go and see if the paper's come yet? It wasn't there yet when I brought in the milk. The lad's been late this week."

"I'll have a word with him."

"If you do, you shall find yourself crosswise with your wife! He's been helping his mother with the new baby while his father's working."

"Hmph. Likely excuse! That's no justification for tardiness," he muttered as he headed for the front door.

It took Charles only a moment to retrieve the newspaper, and when he returned, there was a cup of tea on the table at his place. "Thank you, dear," he acknowledged as he sat down and opened the morning paper.

Elsie continued to bustle about the kitchen, while he sipped his tea and commented on the things he was reading, mostly grumbling about the way the world was changing. He was engrossed in an article about the current session of Parliament as she moved to the counter and started to slice some bread.

"I'm eager to try this new toaster," she said as she put a slice of bread into her newest kitchen appliance. "Daisy recommended it. She says it's the very latest – from America. They've got one just like it at the Abbey now."

"Mm-hmm," he replied, paying no attention whatsoever to what she was saying and doing.

While the bread was browning in the toaster, she ladled the porridge into bowls and put the bacon, eggs, potatoes, and tomatoes on two plates. She set the plates on the counter next to the toaster and placed the bowls on the table. Just as she bent to look over his shoulder at the paper, the toast popped up, startling Charles, who spilled his tea on his paper and fell off his chair. Frightened as he was, he had the presence of mind to protect his wife. Crying, "Elsie! Get down!" he quickly pulled her to the floor with him and scrambled under the table. He carefully cradled her in his arms against his chest as he pressed her back against the floor, covering her body with his own. When her initial surprise at his drastic reaction wore off, Elsie started to laugh.

"I fail to see what's so amusing!" he complained angrily. "That bloody contraption is defective! It might explode at any moment, and you're _laughing_!"

"Oh, Charles!" she said, still chortling. "It's _supposed_ to do that! These new toasters turn off on their own, and they pop the bread up when it's done cooking. That way, the toast can't burn."

"You mean it's _supposed_ to scare the daylights out of me? That took ten years off my life! And I haven't got that many left!" protested Charles indignantly.

"Now, don't exaggerate, love. It's just a wee, harmless thing!"

"_Harmless?_! That … that … _device_ … is dangerous! I am _not_ exaggerating!"

"Darling, we're cowering under the kitchen table, hiding from a little cooking apparatus. I'd say that's a bit extreme."

"Yes, well … I have a duty, as your husband, to protect you."

"From the big, bad toaster? Oh, yes. I do feel quite safe under your protection. Actually," she pondered further, running her hands over his shoulders suggestively, "I do rather like this arrangement."

"Oh, do you now?" he asked flirtatiously, his defiance dissipating as he kissed her neck.

"Yes, I believe I do. And you know, there _is_ one advantage to this new toaster that you've neglected to take into account," she whispered while nibbling his earlobe. "We won't need to interrupt our activities to turn it off."

"You're certain it won't burst into flames?" he asked as he cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Mm-hmm," she assured him.

"The toaster can stay," he agreed before kissing her ardently.

Half an hour later, having concluded their amorous encounter, they ate their cold – but _unburned_ – toast, along with the rest of their cold breakfast. Neither complained.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N In honor of libbybell's birthday (or putmeinyourpocketmike if you want to find her on tumblr), I've come up with a little one-shot. It's based on the following prompt from tumblr's otpdisaster:**

_**Imagine person B of your OTP sternly addressing (or reprimanding) a large crowd of co-workers, subordinates, or teammates. Then imagine Person A coming through the door to kiss Person B on the nose, give them a lunch, and all manner of other cute things that throws Person B off, flustering Person B in front of the crowd.**_

_**BONUS: If person C is part of the crowd, laughs at them, and gets severely punished for it.**_

**Libbybell, this little fic comes with well wishes for all sorts of good things on your special day, sincere gratitude for your being such a dedicated, devoted, diligent reviewer, and most of all, appreciation for your being such a nice person and delightful human being.**

_Sometime shortly after the Carsons' wedding …_

"And another thing ... " Mr. Carson barreled on. "Andrew, you came perilously close to knocking over Mrs. Crawley's water glass! Please do be more cautious in future!"

"Yes, Mr. Carson," the guilty footman replied apologetically.

The servants stood at attention around the table just before their luncheon, enduring Mr. Carson's tirade. The serving of the family's luncheon had not gone well, at least by the butler's high standards. Mr. Barrow and Mr. Molesley had already been chastised for speaking impertinently and for wearing a sloppily-tied bow tie, respectively. Mr. Carson's foul temper was exacerbated by the fact that he'd just returned to work that morning after having been sick in bed for several days. While things had gone perfectly smoothly in his absence, the very thought of not having personally overseen every detail always unsettled him, and his under butler and footmen were now bearing the brunt of his ill humor. Their shoddy performance upstairs provided a convenient outlet for the butler's frustration.

The staff breathed a collective sigh of relief when Mrs. Carson appeared in the doorway. The housekeeper's ability to calm the butler was well-known, and her pacifying powers had become even more potent since they'd married.

"What's all this?" asked Mrs. Carson as she walked into the servants' hall and noticed her husband's perturbed expression and the dismayed looks on the faces of those assembled, ranging from Mr. Barrow's mild annoyance to Mr. Molesley's typical confusion to Andrew's sheer terror.

Not answering his wife's question immediately, Mr. Carson motioned for everyone to sit and asked Daisy to begin serving. Once the meal was underway and there was subdued chatter around the table, he explained the situation to Mrs. Carson.

"The family's luncheon was a disaster! First, Mr. Barrow hinted that – What are you doing?" he asked in alarm as Mrs. Carson pulled his plate closer to her and began to cut his meat and butter his bread.

"I'm helping you. You've just been ill, and I don't want you to strain yourself. You need to save your strength," she answered sensibly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Carson, but I'm perfectly capable – "

"I'm sure you are, but you've only just recovered. There's no harm in my helping." She returned the plate to him, while Miss Baxter hid a smile behind her napkin.

"Yes, well, as I was saying … After Mr. Barrow's rude behavior, Andrew nearly – " He stopped talking as his wife placed her hand over his on the table and stroked his fingers soothingly.

"Oh, come, now, Mr. Carson. You mustn't upset yourself. It can't have been all that bad. Here. Let's get you some tea." And she prepared a cup for him, just the way he liked it. Anna grinned, and Madge failed to stifle a soft giggle.

Mr. Carson accepted his tea while shooting warning glances around the table. "Thank you. That's very kind," he said to Mrs. Carson. "But that's not all. Mr. Molesley's tie … I'm certain the Dowager was staring at it disapprovingly!"

"Your face looks red. Is your fever coming back?" Mrs. Carson bent nearer and felt Mr. Carson's forehead and neck. "No, you don't feel too warm. Are your eyes a bit bloodshot? Let me see." And she moved her face very close to his and checked carefully. "No, I suppose they look all right."

The whole staff were now watching and listening to the exchange with great amusement. Luncheon continued awkwardly for a few minutes, until Mrs. Carson leaned over and whispered to her husband, "You've got a bit of sauce on your chin."

He lifted his napkin and wiped his chin but failed to remove the offending sauce. He looked to the housekeeper, raising his eyebrows, silently asking if he'd got all the food off his face. She shook her head, indicating that he had not, and raised her own napkin to his face, delicately wiping away the remains. When Mr. Carson coughed and sputtered, Mrs. Carson reached over and gently patted him on the back. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes, yes. Perfectly fine, thank you," he replied.

Poorly-muffled sniggering erupted from around the table.

"All right! All of you, finish your meal and get on with your day! There's plenty of work to be done!" bellowed the butler.

The assembly obediently quieted down and finished eating, and the remainder of luncheon passed uneventfully. When the bells began ringing, Mr. Carson dismissed everyone and asked to speak with Mrs. Carson, and she accompanied him to his pantry.

"What was _that_ all about?" he asked once the door was closed behind them.

"What was _what_ all about?" she inquired in return.

"All that attention! You were fussing over me as if I were helpless!"

"Oh, nonsense! I was merely taking care of my husband _who, I'll remind you,_ just returned to work this morning, having been ill for a week."

"I appreciate your taking care of me, Elsie, but … Well, in front of everyone, like that?! It's embarrassing!" blustered the butler.

"I'm sorry, love. You're right," she admitted remorsefully. "Perhaps I was a bit overbearing."

"You cut my food as you would for a child! You wiped my face!"

"Oh, Charles. I never meant to embarrass you in front of the staff or to diminish your authority. I suppose I'm just not accustomed to being your wife yet. I like doting on you, and now that I'm finally allowed to do so freely, I can't help it," apologized Mrs. Carson.

"It's all right, love." Mr. Carson relented at seeing his wife's sincere contrition and pulled her into an embrace.

"You'd been so ill, and I'd been so worried. I just didn't want you to overexert yourself on your first day back – or to get yourself all upset over Mr. Molesley's crooked tie! Dr. Clarkson said you could resume your work, but he also said you shouldn't overdo it," she reminded him.

"You're right, my dear. I promise not to work too hard. And I'll stop immediately if I start to feel ill again," he assured her.

"Thank you. That makes me feel better."

"And don't think for a moment that I don't appreciate your loving ministrations, because I do. I just prefer to enjoy such tender affections when we're _alone_." He bent to kiss her sweetly but meaningfully.

"Understood," she acknowledged with a smile. "Come on, then. We should get on before someone thinks we're up to no good in here."

Mr. Carson released his wife from his embrace but held her hand as he led her to the door, opened it, and ushered her out into the corridor. Just before they were about to part ways, Mrs. Carson reached up to straighten her husband's tie and smooth his lapels.

Mr. Barrow, who had just rounded the corner, met them with a smirk. "My, my, Mr. Carson. Mrs. Carson certainly takes good care of you. I find myself quite jealous."

"As well you _should_, Mr. Barrow. I'm a very lucky man. We should _all_ be so fortunate as to have someone look after us _half_ as well as my darling wife looks after me," responded the butler, and he stooped to kiss his housekeeper lovingly on the cheek. "Now, Mr. Barrow, shouldn't you be helping Mr. Molesley and Andrew set up for tea?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson." And the under butler loped off to tend to his duties.

**A/N Thank you for reading. Please leave a review if you can spare a few moments. Also, be sure to send birthday greetings to libbybell/putmeinyourpocketmike here on fanfiction-dot-net or on tumblr.**

**Side note: When I asked my teenage daughters if one of them would proofread this for me, my nine-year-old son volunteered to do it. Good thing this is PG-9. The following conversation actually occurred:**

**Son: "What's a dowager?"**

**Me: "Granny."**

**Son: "Oh."**

**Then my daughter gave it a second once-over and reminded me that I missed the part of the prompt about Person A kissing Person B on the nose. I just couldn't see Mrs. Carson kissing Mr. Carson on the nose in front of the staff. But the rest might happen, in some wacky, cracky AU world.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N This is a birthday present for Kissman. Happy, happy! It comes with birthday greetings, general well wishes, and lots of love. Kissman, may you enjoy all the good things on your special day!**

**I'm posting this under my Chelsie OTP prompts, for lack of a better place – and because the idea came indirectly from a prompt I saw on tumblr otpdisaster. The prompt was something about Person A daring Person B to place a phone call to Person C during the course of aggressively passionate, intimate activities (between Persons A and B). I've altered it a little and toned it down quite a bit to suit my purposes, but it's still the same general idea: one half of the pair trying to carrying on a phone conversation while enjoying the attentions being bestowed upon him/her by the other half. (I'll bet you never imagined Mr. Molesley inserting himself in a love scene with the Carsons – or maybe you did!) To borrow a term from evitamockingbird, it's "suggestive fluff."**

**Special thanks to evitamockingbird and brenna-louise for their help with this one.**

**Kissman – and everyone else who's reading – I hope you enjoy!**

_The Carsons' cottage, sometime after marriage and shortly after retirement. When __**exactly**__? Dunno. Doesn't matter._

Charles arrived home just as Elsie picked up the receiver of the ringing telephone, which stood on the small table in the hallway between the kitchen and the parlor. "Carson residence," she chirped pleasantly. "Mrs. Carson speaking." She had her back to the door and didn't see or hear him come in, and he overheard her saying, "Oh, hello, Mr. Molesley."

Charles cursed silently as he registered the caller's identity. Mr. Barrow, who had been promoted to butler upon Charles's retirement, had taken ill and had been confined to his bed for several days, and Mr. Molesley, who had been left to manage in the new butler's absence, was frantic. When he'd reached the point where he could no longer pester a sickly Mr. Barrow with frivolous inquiries, Mr. Molesley had begun calling Charles at the cottage to ask a thousand and one questions about the running of the house. Though Charles harbored no real fondness at all for the man, he did not wish to see standards slip, even though it was no longer his responsibility, so he impatiently endured the footman's almost daily barrages of largely unnecessary queries.

He thought it best not to make Elsie aware of his presence so that she could tell Mr. Molesley, without intentionally lying, that Charles was not at home. With any luck, the impossibility of talking with Charles would be enough for Mr. Molesley to end the call mercifully quickly. Charles quietly hung his coat and hat on the coat rack, and he heard Elsie say, "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Molesley, Mr. Carson has gone into the village. I'm not sure when he'll be back." Charles was pleased, thinking that was the end of it – or nearly enough so. But his ever-helpful wife continued, "Is there something _I_ can help you with?" Then, as she listened to Mr. Molesley's response, she turned around and caught sight of Charles. He began vigorously shaking his head and flailing his hands, pleading with Elsie not to inform Mr. Molesley of his arrival. It was evident from her sustained silence and attentive listening that there _was_ indeed something with which Mr. Molesley thought Elsie might help, and she did not betray her husband's presence.

As Elsie continued to listen to the hapless, helpless first footman, replying occasionally with a "yes" or "I see," Charles approached and greeted her silently with a kiss on the cheek. He expected her to summarily dispense with Mr. Molesley and his phone call so that she could greet her husband properly and give him her full attention; however, she did not. The crisis du jour seemed to require some remediation, or at least the poor footman sounded so desperate that Elsie felt compelled to placate him. Charles stood next to Elsie and waited for her to end the call.

"I believe Mr. Carson kept the Rundell candlesticks on the right hand side of the bottom shelf. Unless Mr. Barrow has relocated them, they should still be there," she said.

Charles shook his head, not surprised that Mr. Molesley was unable even to do something so simple as to find a pair of candlesticks.

"Yes," Elsie went on, "I think they would be perfectly suitable."

Charles began to grow impatient and decided there might be a way to hasten the conclusion of the conversation. He stole around behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and began kissing the back of her neck. Elsie pretended to be unaffected, but he heard her soft intake of breath and saw her eyes flutter closed and back open.

"Well, I don't know as much about wine as Mr. Carson, but I think the Margaux would be a good choice. Mr. Carson has always favored it. You might check with his lordship."

Having failed to obtain the desired reaction from his wife, Charles proceeded to take more aggressive measures. He reached under her arms and brought his hands to the top button of her blouse, near her throat, and unfastened it. Holding the telephone as she was, Elsie was unable – and perhaps unwilling – to deter him as he nibbled her earlobe – the one that was not obstructed by the telephone's earpiece – and his hands slowly worked their way down her front, unbuttoning her blouse.

"I'm sorry Mr. Molesley; I couldn't hear you. What was that again?" said Elsie into the mouthpiece. Charles smiled. It was unlikely that Mr. Molesley had noticed Elsie's distracted state, but Charles certainly had, and he was pleased to have been successful in his attempts at redirecting Elsie's concentration.

Still standing behind her, Charles carefully untucked the hem of Elsie's blouse from under the waist of her skirt and undid the last two buttons. Elsie's blouse now hung loosely from her shoulders. Her neck, upper chest, and corset were exposed in front, and Charles leaned over her shoulder and peered down to admire the sight. He moved his hands to her wrists and unbuttoned her cuffs, making sure not to dislodge the earpiece or the mouthpiece from her hands, and gently slid her sleeves from her wrists, down her forearms, and to her elbows, first one arm and then the other. His lips trailed his hands and kissed a path along the bare skin. Then he eased her blouse from her shoulders so that it draped around her back and the sleeves caught at the elbows. As long as she needed both hands to hold the telephone to her ear and to her mouth, there was no way he could remove her blouse completely, but he was content to kiss her shoulders from behind and to tickle the back of her neck with his heavy, hot breaths.

Charles loosened the laces of her corset. After listening for a moment longer she answered, "Yes, Mr. Molesley. You can tell Madge she is correct. Her ladyship prefers the light blue sheets." Elsie's words were strained and a little breathless, and her eyes were closed.

Charles stepped around Elsie to stand in front of her. As she replied to Mr. Molesley's questions – "yes, of course," "no, I don't think so," – Charles drew one finger over Elsie's neck and chest, tracing along her collarbone and the line where her corset and shift met her skin. He knelt before her to inspect the busk of her corset and began unhooking the fastenings. After he'd undone them all, it was a tricky business to slide the corset from her body. Her hands were still occupied with the telephone, and her blouse still hung from her elbows and wrapped around her back, but Charles managed to remove the garment despite the obstructions and set it down on the floor next to him.

As Elsie continued to assist Mr. Molesley with his queries, Charles continued to divest her of her clothing.

Since he was already in position, he unbuckled her shoes. He held each shoe in place, and she raised each foot in turn to step out.

Next, he placed his hands at her hips and pressed gently. He undid the buttons at her skirt waist and let the article fall down her legs and pool at her feet. She obligingly stepped out of it. His hands worked their way slowly up her calves, from her ankles to her knees, tickling, teasing, kneading, squeezing. When he arrived at her knees, his hand moved under her shift and lavished the same attentions on her thighs. He felt around for her garters and removed them. Then he rolled each stocking down her leg administering the same touches on the way down as he did on his way up. Finally he slid his hands back up under her shift one last time and withdrew her knickers.

All the while, he marveled at Elsie's ability to calmly answer the footman's questions as she was being systematically stripped of her clothing. He'd always marveled at her powers of concentration, but this was impressive. Her eyes were closed, and her head was thrown back, indicating to him that she was indeed affected by his actions. But when she spoke, her voice hardly wavered. Her breath hitched once or twice, and she shivered occasionally, but her answers were perfectly sensible, and Mr. Molesley would surely be none the wiser to what was happening in the Carsons' cottage as he acquired the information he sought about table linens, silver, china, and crystal. Charles only hoped that Mr. Molesley's inquisition was nearly over. How uncertain could he possibly be? He was, after all, a trained butler.

As Elsie stood before him, wearing only her shift (and her blouse caught around her elbows), Charles thought ironically that this was the first time he'd ever been envious of Mr. Molesley. At the moment, the man was claiming more of Elsie's attention than she was sparing her own husband - who happened to be undressing her!

Charles decided to deal the final blow, the one which he expected would put an end to all this nonsense. He lifted her shift, hoping to kiss a path along the naked skin he found underneath, but Elsie apparently had other plans.

At the first contact of his lips on her stomach, she squeaked, "Ooh! Ah! Oh, Mr. Molesley, you're in luck! Mr. Carson has just come home." Then she raised her voice and pretended to call out across the room, "It's Mr. Molesley on the telephone for you, Mr. Carson. He's got some questions about tonight's dinner service."

Charles panicked as he looked up to Elsie to find her grinning wickedly down at him. He moaned quietly, relinquished both her shift and his grasp on her bottom, and stood to take the phone from her. Not only would he have to abide Mr. Molesley's relentless interrogation, but his wife would likely exact some retribution for the teasing he'd just imposed upon her.

Happy to be rid of Mr. Molesley and eager to have her turn to bestow reciprocal attentions upon her husband, Elsie handed the phone over to Charles.

"Yes, Mr. Molesley. What can I do for you?" he began gruffly.

Elsie commenced her seduction by letting her blouse flutter to the floor. She wondered briefly if she should pull off her shift immediately or wait until later, and after a moment's consideration, she opted for the latter.

As Charles addressed Mr. Molesley's problems and concerns, Elsie unbuttoned Charles's suit coat. She couldn't remove it, of course, because he was holding the telephone, so she unbuttoned his waistcoat as well and slid her hands over his chest, feeling his warmth through his shirt and vest. She lifted her hands to his neck, unknotted his tie, detached his studs and collar from his shirt, and laid them all on the small table. Stretching up on her toes, she kissed his exposed neck, licking, nipping, and sucking tenderly.

Charles cleared his throat. "I do apologize. Will you please repeat that?" he said to Mr. Molesley.

Pleased to be flustering Charles, Elsie reached for his shirt cuffs underneath his suit coat sleeves, removed his cuff links – taking advantage of the opportunity to tickle the sensitive skin on the insides of his wrists – and set the links next to his tie, collar, and studs.

Finally, she began to unbutton his shirt. When she reached the point where it was tucked into his trousers, she wanted to pull it out, but his braces made it difficult. She pushed his suit coat and waistcoat to the sides and unbuttoned the front of his braces from his trousers. Now his braces hung loosely, and she was able to pull the front of his shirt from his trousers and undo the remaining buttons. Then she moved around behind him, lifted his coattails and waistcoat, and unbuttoned his braces in back. She pulled them through, out from under his waistcoat, and discarded them on the sideboard with his other accoutrements. Remaining at his back, she pulled his shirttails and vest fully from his trousers and reached her hands under the vest to find bare skin. She ran her hands over his back and scratched lightly with her fingernails before wrapping her hands around to his front and fondling his chest and stomach.

Charles's groans were audible and obvious; however, Elsie suspected that Mr. Molesley, on the other end of the telephone line, would only assume they were groans of impatience and exasperation, directed at him and his incessant pestering.

Elsie sincerely hoped that Mr. Molesley would soon run out of questions or that Charles would soon run out of patience, but when the conversation turned to his lordship's preferences for wine, her hopes were dashed. She could do nothing but proceed on her present course.

She stooped to untie Charles's shoes and held them in place as he pulled out his feet. Reaching under his trouser legs, she unfastened his garters and removed his socks, lightly grazing the skin of his calves in the process and earning an appreciative sigh from her husband. She placed the garters and socks inside his shoes and set the shoes next to hers.

"No, I don't think that should pose any problem," Charles told Mr. Molesley.

Standing once more, Elsie turned her attentions to her husband's trousers. They already hung loosely about his hips, no longer having the benefit of braces to hold them up, and it was a simple matter to undo the buttons at his waist and push the trousers down his legs. He assisted her by lifting each foot in turn, and she cast the trousers aside with the other articles of clothing on the floor. Finally, she reached up and pulled down his undershorts. He wasted no time in stepping out of them and kicking them aside, but still Mr. Molesley prattled on, and still Charles indulged him.

Elsie was frustrated that she could not undress her husband further in his current configuration, nor could she lure him away from his telephone call. But she had one more means at her disposal. She shook her head sadly and arranged her facial features into an exaggerated pout for Charles's benefit. Then she sauntered off down the hallway towards their bedroom. She stood just outside the doorway, where Charles could see her, provocatively shimmied out of her shift, and tossed it in his direction before disappearing into the bedroom.

"You must excuse me, Mr. Molesley. An urgent matter has arisen which requires my immediate attention. I shall ring you back at my earliest convenience," said Charles. And with that, he slammed down the telephone and followed his wife into their bedroom.

**A/N Please leave a little (or a big) review if you feel so inclined, and please wish Kissman a happy birthday!**

**Oh, and if you notice any mistakes, that's because I had to fire my proofreaders. They both missed two typos in the last chapter, libbybell's birthday gift! (Not to mention that this might just be a little too risqué for a nine- and a thirteen-year-old.)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N This is a very belated birthday gift for the extremely sweet libbybell (putmeinyourpocketmike). Her birthday was a week ago, but I just couldn't manage to finish this in time. I hope she enjoys it despite the delay. She requested a story in which Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes are locked together somewhere and they're forced to finally confront and confess their feelings for each other. They're not strictly **_**locked**_** together in this story, but they **_**are**_** "stuck." I hope this suits. You can imagine it taking place probably at any point during the first four seasons or even the first part of the fifth, really.**

The sky to the west was dark and threatening, and the wind was whipping up; but so far, there was no rain, thunder, or lightning. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes stood in the servants' courtyard having a heated discussion. The hot August weather had been making _everyone_ irritable, and the two senior servants were as badly afflicted as anyone else. They'd had their little tiffs in the past, but this one had been building for some time. For the past week or so, they'd been sniping at each other over this and that. Most of the matters had been trivial enough to sort themselves out, but the housekeeper and butler still had not made amends and come to terms. For several days, they had not sought each other out, had forgone their quotidian afternoon tea and evening sherry together, and had dealt with each other only as necessary. Recent interactions between the two had been frosty at best.

This afternoon, they'd begun to air their differences inside the house, but they'd had to step out to the courtyard when their conversation became tense and they started to raise their voices. At first, they'd been alone outside in the yard, but then they'd been joined by a few maids and footmen, at which time the butler and housekeeper moved off to the side and lowered their voices a bit to avoid causing a scene.

"But surely you must agree, Mr. Carson!" said Mrs. Hughes, attempting to remain calm.

"No, Mrs. Hughes, I mostly certainly _must not_ – and _do not_ – agree with you!" shouted Mr. Carson.

Mrs. Hughes tried desperately to keep her composure, but she was becoming increasingly frustrated. "I'm simply pointing out, Mr. Carson, that if you will think about it for just one moment – "

"I _have_ thought about it, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson interrupted loudly. "I've given it a _great deal_ of thought. More than _you_ have, apparently. And _I_ have come to the _correct_ conclusion!"

"Oh, you're ridiculous!" yelled Mrs. Hughes, throwing her hands up. "There's just no reasoning with you!"

"Not when I'm_ right_, there's not!" he bellowed back, raising his chin defiantly. "And you're foolish if you think that – " He stopped abruptly when he realized they'd attracted an audience: all of the others were staring at them. The maids had stopped shaking out the linens, and the footmen had ceased their polishing. They were all gawking, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, at the scene before them. It wasn't often that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes let their tempers get the better of them – and never both at the same time.

"What are you lot doing? Get back to work!" ordered Mr. Carson when he saw the onlookers. And he took Mrs. Hughes by the hand, pulled her – firmly but not forcefully – into the wooden storage shed, and closed the door to afford them some privacy. They were just able to overhear one of the maids mutter, "There's a storm brewing, and no mistake!" – to which a footman replied, "More than one, I think! We'd best get back inside."

The shed was cramped and stuffy, but the lack of space and the absence of circulation mattered little when the two heads of staff stood toe-to-toe and practically nose-to-nose, confronting each other.

"Now, then. Where were we? Ah, yes. The scheduling debacle. Why wasn't I informed of the situation?" Mr. Carson accused angrily.

She scoffed. "I didn't inform you, Mr. Carson, because it was none of your concern!" Mrs. Hughes shot back.

"Everything that goes on in this house is my concern, Mrs. Hughes!"

They carried like this on for a few minutes: sometimes making legitimate, rational claims but at other times hurling angry, irrational accusations. Soon, they'd both exhausted their list of grievances and had reached an impasse, and a tense silence ensued. They'd moved even closer during the course of their argument, and now their faces were mere inches apart. They stood staring each other down, breathing heavily. A blinding flash of lightning and a deafening clap of thunder startled them, and they moved apart. Seconds later, the rain started beating against the shed, and they peered out the small window on the side wall.

"Wonderful!" cried Mr. Carson sarcastically. "And now we're stuck in here until the storm dies down. This is all your fault, Mrs. Hughes!"

"_My_ fault! How on Earth do you reckon this is _my_ fault?"

"If you had just come round to my way of thinking, we wouldn't be out here arguing in the first place."

"Oh, this is nonsense! I can't stay here and listen to you a minute longer! I'm going to make a dash for it," declared Mrs. Hughes.

"Certainly not! You must be joking!"

"I am _not_ joking."

"But surely it will let up soon," he argued.

"Not likely, Mr. Carson. Look out there, and listen. This one's not going to blow over any time soon." She pointed to the window. Everything outside was dark and gray and ominous. The rain lashed against the window in driving torrents, and the wind was blowing leaves and twigs from the trees. Lightning split the sky; thunder shook the ground and rattled the shed. "And if you don't fancy spending the rest of the afternoon cooped up in this little shed all by yourself," she continued, "I'd suggest _you also_ take your chances and make a break for it."

"I will not! And neither will you. I forbid it."

"Hmph! You forbid it?! Since when is the housekeeper obliged to obey the butler's orders?!"

"She is required to do so only when she is being unreasonable, when he is being perfectly sensible, and when _dis_obeying him might place her in peril!"

"Hmph!" said Mrs. Hughes again, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms defiantly. "Peril? It's a little bit of water, Mr. Carson!"

"I mean it, Mrs. Hughes," said Mr. Carson gravely. "It's dangerous out there! Look at that lightning. And the wind is carrying all sorts of debris. You'll never make it back to the house safely – never mind the fact that you'll be drenched in the process. I _cannot_ and _will not _allow you to come to any harm!"

She started to turn towards the door, but he was faster. He grasped her by the elbows and spun them both around, placing himself between her and the door, effectively barring her exit. She squirmed, trying to break his grip, but he held her fast. When writhing and twisting failed to free her, she placed her arms on his chest and pushed. He wrapped his arms around her back and squeezed tightly. When Mrs. Hughes realized her efforts were futile, she stopped struggling, but her hands remained on Mr. Carson's chest. He loosened his hold somewhat, though he still kept his arms around her. Both were breathing heavily from the exertion as they glowered at each other.

"Mrs. Hughes, you are an obstinate, vexatious, insufferable woman!" he exclaimed.

"And you, Mr. Carson, are a pompous, exasperating, incorrigible man!" she rejoined.

But Mr. Carson's annoyance was lessening as he held Mrs. Hughes so close, and his passion turned in a different direction. He almost couldn't help the words that escaped him next. "If I weren't so absolutely livid right now, I would kiss you. I would hold you in my arms and never let you go. I would tell you how beautiful you are and how much I love you, and I would ask you to be mine."

Mrs. Hughes was shocked by Mr. Carson's words, though his proximity had its effect on her as well, and she responded equally frankly. "And if _I_ weren't so irate right now, I might _allow_ you to kiss me and hold me. I might even tell you that I love you, too, and that I've _been_ yours for a great, long while."

Surprised but emboldened by her profession, he pressed on. "If I were less irritated, I would tell you that I've been in love with you for a very long time … and that I dream of living with you in a little cottage on the estate and growing old with you. Sitting by the fire … walking through the village or to church with you on my arm ... falling asleep in your embrace and waking next to you."

"And I were less cross, I would tell you that I dream of those same things," she confessed.

"If I were calmer, I'd ask you to marry me."

"And if I were more settled, I'd say yes."

She raised her hands to his shoulders, and he lowered his hands to her waist.

He took a deep breath and drew her even nearer. "Mrs. Hughes, I find that somehow my anger has vanished entirely. Are you still furious with me?" he asked.

"I do believe my wrath has dissipated, Mr. Carson," she told him.

"Why we were even arguing in the first place?"

"I can't remember. Does it matter?"

"Not a bit."

"Did you really mean what you just said?" she needed to know.

"I did. Every word of it. I'll admit that it was the heat of the moment that caused me – or finally _allowed_ me – to say it, but everything I said was true. And if you'd like, I'll gladly repeat it all now that I'm more myself. But what about you? Were you in earnest?"

"I was completely sincere. Even in a fit of rage, I wouldn't say those things unless they were true."

"Well, then. Perhaps we might actually _do_ some of those things that were mere speculation a moment ago," he ventured, "now that we're no longer at odds."

"I remember there was talk of holding and kissing," she reminded him.

"There _was_," he confirmed. "I recall that."

"Well, you're already holding me, and it's lovely, I must say. But I'm still waiting for the kissing part. You're talking too much."

"I'm sorry, my love. Forgive me. It's only that I've spent years imagining this moment. I can't believe it's actually happening. I don't want it to be over too quickly. I suppose I'm just trying to draw it out and savor it."

She was growing impatient. "Who says it's going to be over quickly? As a matter of fact, this is just the beginning. I hope it's never 'over.' Now, will you please kiss me, or will _I_ need to kiss _you_?"

"Either. Both," he rumbled softly as he lowered his head and she raised her face to his.

When their lips met, the contact was soft and tender, in contrast to the storm still raging outside. Their caresses were as gentle as the storm was violent. Though their hearts pounded wildly, their movements were deliberate, and their touches were delicate. After a time, Mrs. Hughes rested her head on Mr. Carson's chest, and he rested his cheek against her head. They both let out little sighs of contentment.

"That was even _better_ than I'd imagined," said Mr. Carson.

"It was delightful," agreed Mrs. Hughes.

"But there was more to our talk than just that. We spoke of love and marriage."

"Yes, we did."

"I do love you," he said, drawing back slightly to look her in the eyes. "Very much, in fact."

"And I love you, too. With all my heart," she assured him, smiling brilliantly.

"Then you'll marry me?"

"Of course … though I can scarcely credit you're truly asking!" She laughed, and he joined her.

"I never would have believed that it would take a heated argument in the storage shed for me to finally declare my feelings to you."

"It _is_ rather an unlikely scenario," she allowed.

"Do you think anyone misses us yet?" he wondered.

"Oh, they're all glad to be rid of us for a time, I'd wager. I doubt they're organizing a search party just yet."

"Hmm. Then perhaps we should take advantage of being stuck here together … before the storm dies down and someone _does_ come looking."

"What do you have in mind?" asked Mrs. Hughes.

"Well … " said Mr. Carson. "At first I wished this storm would be over quickly so that we could get out of here and back to the house. But now I find myself hoping the rain and the wind will keep up for a very long time. I want to stay here and hold your hand and wrap my arms around you and caress your face and touch your hair and whisper my love in your ear."

"Goodness, Mr. Carson! All that? That will take some time! This had better be one _very_ prolonged rainstorm!"

"I do hope so, Mrs. Hughes. I do hope so." And he kissed her again. The storm raged on, no one came looking, and the newly promised couple spent a blissful afternoon alone together in the shed.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N This is a one-week-late birthday gift for the lovely brenna-louise. When I asked whether she had any special requests for a birthday story, she told me that her favorite type of fanfic is period canon Chelsie fluff, and she suggested "maybe some of the cottage fluff you'd hope to see in the film." This was originally intended to be a **_**timely**_** birthday present with an **_**early**_** Valentine's Day theme, but it's taken me so long that it's now a **_**late**_** birthday present with a **_**timely**_** Valentine's Day theme. My apologies to the birthday girl.**

_February 14, 1926_

Elsie woke and rolled over to kiss Charles and wish him a good morning. "Good morning, love. Happy St. Valentine's Day!"

He hummed sleepily and opened one eye. "Is it? Oh! Imagine your remembering that and my forgetting it! Who would have thought such a thing?"

"Indeed," she replied, not letting on that she knew – or at least strongly suspected – that her husband was plotting something.

"Well, you must allow that since we've retired there's little need to keep careful track of the days of the week and the dates of the month," he explained. "I do know it's Sunday today because we're going to services, but as for the other days of the week … Well, it's hard to tell one from another anymore. They're all more or less the same for us these days, as you know. And now that we're not in charge of the family's schedule – no dinner parties or houseguests or outings – I don't keep a formal calendar, and so I rarely pay attention to the date of the month, either. And I find I rather like it that way." He shifted his position and kissed her forehead. "But you're not upset that I've forgotten St. Valentine's Day, are you? We're too sensible for all that frivolity. It's fine for the young maids and footmen, but we're a respectable married couple of a mature age. There's no need to go through all that trouble," he finished pompously.

"Oh, yes. We're much too old and far too practical to be carrying on like that," she replied, waving her hand dismissively while trying to keep a straight face. Clearly, he'd spent some time devising and rehearsing his excuses – even if his delivery proved less than convincing. During the nine months that they'd been married, Elsie had seen ample evidence of Charles's romantic nature. And even the year prior, when they'd been merely engaged and not yet married, he'd treated her well on St. Valentine's Day; he'd given her flowers and chocolates and had taken her to dinner at the Grantham Arms. But she refrained from reminding him of those things and decided not to point out the inconsistency in his current logic, for fear of ruining whatever surprise he was planning. "I'm not upset," she further assured him. "Besides, Mrs. Patmore has invited me to join her this afternoon to do some baking. I hope you don't mind that I've told her yes. I'm sorry I forgot to mention it to you before this, but I hope it won't inconvenience you. I'll be back in time to make us dinner."

"No, no. That's quite all right," he told her, agreeing far too readily. "I won't mind a quiet afternoon here on my own. I've a new book I've been meaning to read."

"Well, then. That's rather convenient," she said, hiding a smirk. "Now, we'd better get moving so that we're not late for church." And she kissed him and rose from bed to get ready for the day.

The truth was that Elsie had suspected something all week. Charles had been acting strangely, and when Mrs. Patmore had awkwardly invited Elsie to spend an afternoon in Downton's kitchen, Elsie's suspicions were confirmed. The affable but transparent cook was, in all likelihood, the world's _second_-worst liar; her abilities at deception only marginally bested Charles's nearly non-existent aptitude for pretense. In light of such evidence, Elsie was all but certain that her husband had enlisted the help of their dear friend … and that the two were conspiring to bring about a surprise for her. Elsie herself, however, was _quite_ skilled in the art of subterfuge, and so when she played along with their ruse, neither Charles nor Mrs. Patmore ever imagined that she might be aware of their plans. Furthermore, Mrs. Patmore's fortuitous invitation would provide Elsie with the opportunity to prepare a little surprise for Charles.

And so, later, after church services and a simple lunch at their cottage, Charles walked Elsie to the big house. He went inside with her and lingered briefly, only long enough to greet their friends. Before leaving, he promised to return for her in a few hours, but Andy and Daisy said they would walk Elsie back home on their way into the village later. Charles kissed Elsie goodbye and headed back to the cottage.

Elsie spent an enjoyable afternoon baking with Mrs. Patmore, and she even made Charles's favorite treacle tart to surprise him. It was perhaps not quite as good as Mrs. Patmore's, but since it was made under the advice and supervision of the veteran cook, Elsie's finished product was certainly a respectable effort.

Just before dinnertime, Daisy and Andy saw Elsie safely to her doorstep and then continued on their way into Downton Village for their date. Elsie entered the cottage, set down the treacle tart, and removed her hat and coat. Then she called out to Charles and heard some noise coming from the kitchen. She took a few more steps into the cottage, and a surprising sight greeted her in the kitchen. Through a faint haze of smoke, she spied a large puddle of water on the floor near the sink, traces of flour scattered about the counter, an array of pots and cooking utensils left abandoned on the stove, several towels discarded haphazardly in various places … and her husband … seated at the table in a rather pathetic state. The poor man had bandages on two of his fingers; his forehead sported a small gash, to which he gingerly held a cloth; and he'd propped up one bare foot, whose big toe was swollen and bruised.

"Oh! Elsie! You're back!" he said by way of salutation, and he shifted in his chair.

"Charles! What have you done to yourself?" she cried, rushing to him and crouching down next to him. Not knowing which injury to examine first, she placed one of her hands on his shoulder and the other on his knee.

"Oh, I'm all right," he sighed. "I'm not hurt badly. I'm just clumsy and useless in the kitchen … _and_ I've gone and ruined the surprise I was planning. Not to mention that I've made a right royal mess in the process."

Elsie took his hands carefully in hers and kissed his forehead. "I don't care about a ruined surprise or a bit of a mess, but I _am_ concerned for my husband. You're certain you're all right?"

"Oh, yes. The only thing _seriously_ injured is my pride," said Charles, looking defeated. "I didn't _really_ forget, you know. I wanted to do something special for you – to surprise you – so I planned a romantic dinner." He pointed to the table. "See? A bottle of wine, flowers, candles … And I tried to cook us a nice meal. Mrs. Patmore gave me a list of ingredients and very specific instructions. She made it sound easy enough, so I thought I could do it. But I should have known better. Clearly, I'm not up to the task. Now the kitchen's a disaster _and_ we have nothing for dinner! Well – unless you fancy making a whole meal of the chocolates I bought you, that is." He gestured towards the small table against the wall, on which sat a neatly wrapped box with a red bow; next to the box was a small envelope, presumably containing a card.

She shook her head. "Oh, Charles! Come here," she said. She rose from her stooped position, and tugged on his hands, prompting him to rise, also. "Do you think you can walk?

"Yes, I'm sure I can … as long as I move slowly and put most of my weight on the other foot. It's not _that_ bad." he told her.

She led him gently to the settee in the parlor and settled him comfortably with two cushions and a quilt.

"Now you just wait here, and I'll be back in a moment," she instructed, placing a kiss on the top of his head.

Elsie returned to the kitchen and spent a few minutes cleaning up the worst of the mess: she sopped up the water from the floor, wiped the flour from the counter, discarded some burnt food, and set the pots and utensils in the sink to soak. Then she prepared a tray containing two helpings of the treacle tart and two glasses of wine, and she rejoined her husband in the parlor. She set the tray down on the tea table and sat next to Charles. While she'd been in the kitchen, he'd stoked the fire and added some logs, and so it was warm and comfortable in the room.

"My darling, I daresay I've never loved you more than I do right now," she said as she took his hands and delicately kissed his injured fingers.

He lifted his eyebrows and looked at her hopefully. "You mean my pathetic, failed efforts have somehow met with your favor?"

"If you mean your _heartfelt, selfless, thoughtful_ efforts, then yes. Of course they have! If those efforts were aimed at making me happy, then they were not 'pathetic' or 'failed.' You have succeeded spectacularly." And to assure him of her sincerity, she kissed him firmly.

Drawing back from the kiss, they both sighed contentedly.

"And I've got something for you," said Elsie as she turned to the tea table and retrieved the two plates of treacle tart. "I'm not especially hungry for a big meal anyway, so perhaps this might tide us over until breakfast. I made it this afternoon at the Abbey. I must admit that Mrs. Patmore helped. She helped _a great deal_, in fact. I doubt it would have turned out very well if I'd been on my own."

"It looks wonderful!" said Charles as he took one of the plates from her. "And it smells delicious, too."

"Well, as I said, it would have been hard for me to botch it up _too_ badly with Mrs. Patmore watching over me," she demurred.

"Well, it's delicious," Charles insisted once he'd swallowed the bite he'd taken.

"Thank you. I'm glad you like it. Maybe now that I've made it once, I can try it on my own sometime, here at the cottage."

"I can help, if you'd like," he offered. Then he thought for a moment and changed his mind. "No, on second thought, perhaps, given recent events, I'd better _not_." And they both laughed at his admission.

"Oh, love, you did make quite a mess. I don't understand how a man so graceful could manage to injure himself – " And here Elsie stopped to count the visible wounds. "_Four_ times?!"

He shook his head in mild frustration. "Oh, my dear, it's a long and sorry tale. Do you really want to hear it?"

"I do," she asserted with a fond smile. "Very much."

And so, while they nibbled their treacle tart and sipped their wine, he humbly related to her the tale of his culinary catastrophes: how he sliced one finger with a paring knife and burned another on the oven door; how he allowed a pot to boil over and then dropped it on his toe when he tried to lift it; how he banged his forehead on a cupboard door; how he spilled flour all over the counter; and how he started a dish towel ablaze and then sloshed water all over the floor in his attempt to extinguish the flaming towel. By the end of the story, both husband and wife were laughing heartily.

"Oh, darling! I want you to know how much I appreciate what you've done here today," she said, leaning over and wrapping her arms around him.

"You mean what I've _tried_ to do. I've got nothing to show for my efforts," lamented Charles.

"But don't you see? Even if you _had_ somehow managed to conjure up a first-rate, gourmet dinner, the actual food would mean far less to me than the intention behind it. Look at all the work you put into it! I have a husband who loves me enough to _try_ to do that for me. And that means more to me than you'll ever know."

"I _do_ love you, Elsie. And you deserve every good thing – so much more than I can ever give you! Sometimes, like today, I might not succeed. But I promise never to stop trying."

"I love you, too Charles, and I'll make you the same promise. I won't always be successful, but I do promise never to give up. We're still new at this, but we've got many years ahead of us in which to figure it out. And somehow, together, we'll get there in the end," Elsie declared confidently.

"Indeed we will. Only … the next time I try to do something special for you, I think I should _take you out_ to dinner."

"Now _that_ is a sensible plan! See? We're learning already!"

Charles and Elsie spent the rest of the evening cuddled closely on the settee, enjoying their first Valentine's Day as a married couple. Their thoughts and conversation drifted occasionally to such incidental matters as chocolates and flowers and greeting cards, but most of their attention was focused on something of far greater importance: the joy they derived from simply belonging to one another.

**A/N ETA: For the record, I am pointedly ignoring the cooking debacle and Charles's shaky hands. Blissful denial is more pleasant than what Fellowes gave us. La-dee-dah. Everything is happy and fluffy and perfect. See?**


End file.
